Pariah
by calligraphied
Summary: In the months prior to Bane's occupation, a hardened, disillusioned beat cop is about to take on a new partner. Blake/OC. HIATUS.
1. Prologue

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Prologue

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. . .

It's getting harder to breathe.

Looking up, I can see light. It's gleaming through the cracks in the rubble. Lingering clouds of dust wash it out, turn it gray, but it's sunlight all the same. It spills through the ruins of the fallen tunnel, filling the cold underground with at least the impression of warmth. I can't feel it – but I know it's there.

I take it in for what I know will be the last time. One last long look at what little of the world I can still see. What a terrifying thought to take with you. Knowing that you will never see that sun again, feel its heat on your skin, watch it rise from behind the shadow of the dark cityscape. _The last thing I ever saw. _The sun. Ironic that it should be such a cold comfort.

I would have liked it to be him. It would've been more comfortable to die in his arms, where it's always been warm and safe. No tears. No melodrama. Just a whispered goodbye that only I would be able to hear and I'd take it with me just as quietly.

A part of me doesn't want to believe it, and John might have said that's the fighter in me talking – but the truth is always hard to swallow. Even if there was someone here to dig me out, I wouldn't let them. Not even John himself. I don't believe in letting people save me. It always has to be me – or no one at all.

I can feel the blood pouring out. I'm slipping away with it. It's hard to tell from where, or how much of me has gone already, but something tells me I don't want to know. Death is even harder to accept than the truth. I suppose it's natural to struggle, hold on tight to the only thing you ever had in this world that was constant and sure. I don't want to die. No one does.

There's still so much left to do. I suppose I'll take them down with me, those half-finished dreams of mine. If John were here, he'd understand. That I tried – tried to find my mother, tried to make it out of this city alive, find a piece of quiet country somewhere far away where I could finally settle down. I let out a cold, thin laugh at the thought – all the promises I'd made were to myself. All my life I'd protected my heart from the world, knowing it would only break it. Funny that I should be the one to let myself down in the end. Irony really is a cold son of a bitch.

My fingers loosen their grip on a jagged piece of broken concrete. The hand falls. I barely feel it as it collides with hard stone. Overhead, the daylight seems to darken. I slump over and let my insides fill with blood.

I'm not afraid.

I'm not bitter.

I did everything I could.

I just wish he were here…so I could say goodbye.

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(I just saw TDKR today and oh my god...John Blake. Be still my dear heart! Anyway, this is different from my usual flowery style. I want this story to be about humanity. How fragile it is and how complex it can be. And so, this story is told by a human being. A girl who just wanted happiness. Who's life started out hard, and she had to fight for everything she had. Love can sometimes contradict everything we ever wanted and change our perspective. So, I hope I can demonstrate the deep feelings I am having for this character...how fragile and complex _she _is, no matter how hard her exterior. I do hope you enjoy this story. Please let me know if you'd be interested in reading it. :] )

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disclaimer - i don't own john blake. only my character.


	2. Rookie

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Chapter One:

_Rookie_

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_. . . _

The clock is pushing six by the time I walk in. It's always smart to make it look like you care about your job – especially if you really do. My uniform is laundered every week, pressed and starched, and I make sure to keep it looking that way even if I can't afford to take it in. Most of the others don't give a shit about their appearance. They don't work half as hard for their positions either. They know people. They take a hit on the job, working Vice in the shittiest part of town. Some of them are just damn lucky. I'm not that lucky.

I reach my desk just as the door to the Captain's office creaks open. The rusty hinges still haven't been fixed, after all this time. "Nina, in here. Now."

"Yes, Captain." I reply. We're always given half a second to set down our things – coat, coffee, and more often than not our gun and holster. I leave them behind and report to my superior before he gets any wise ideas that I'm hard of hearing.

I shut the door behind me. There's a fresh-faced kid with doe eyes waiting too, standing before Cap's desk, and his uniform looks almost as pristine as mine. Rookie. I can see it in his face. No lines around the mouth, no dark circles framing his full cheeks. He carries the same kind of optimism they all walk in with and lose when they take their first beat. He'll lose it soon, I can guess that much about him.

"Meet your new partner, Officer Blake," Cap gestures to the rook, looking mildly disinterested in the matter. "Enjoy."

"Sir, I only just lost Hernandez-"

"Your point?"

"I mean no disrespect," I tell him. "Only that there's a mourning period, sir, before we're assigned new partners."

"I'm sure you don't, Nina," he nods, at least having the decency to look at me as he delivers the bad news. "But I've decided to overlook what is, and always has been, more of a guideline than actual procedure. You'll go out with Blake tonight, show him the ropes. It's his first beat. Be easy on him."

_Be easy on him. _Funny, I never got that sort of treatment from my own older, more experienced partners when I first came in. He must have given the opposite advice. I was as soft as new leather when I walked through that door – looking much like Blake here. Doe-eyed, promising, youthful; I was altogether ignorant of the way the world worked and just what kind of greasy cogs made it run. By the time my first month in the force was up, there were cracks running through me. No more of that soft rookie's skin. Hardness took its place and filled in the cracks life left behind. I was a stronger person for it. It's his hardened exterior that keeps a cop safe from falling apart on the inside when he takes a crippling blow.

I bite my tongue and nod compliantly. "Of course, sir. I'll be happy to introduce Blake to the ropes."

"Oh and Nina…"

Reaching the door, I turn around and face the old, weather-beaten man sitting behind his desk. His dark eyes are almost hidden beneath heavy, wilted skin. "Set up your new partner with his own workspace. Just in case."

"Yes, sir."

Once I'm out, I can breathe again. The tightness goes out of my shoulders and I resume my own easy gait. I'm so relieved to be out of the Captain's sight that I almost forget about the fresh-faced little shadow trailing behind me.

"Good," I tell him as I flop down in my chair, already feeling the bone-deep exhaustion set in before the shift has even started. "You're not a talker."

He smiles a little, a smirk as stiff as whipcord, and his eyes almost disappear. "Depends on the topic."

"There's your desk." I point to the empty space that used to be second home to my old partner, a hard-nosed Puerto Rican with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. There's still ashes swept under the legs of his chair and spare paper taped behind one of the drawers.

There's a certain edge of awkwardness in the way he familiarizes himself with his new surroundings. Especially the desk itself. He runs his hand over the pitted wood surface, slow and purposeful, as if he's getting to know it, introducing himself politely to an old salt. Only after he's looked everything over, considered the state of his new furnishings, does he sit down and make himself comfortable. You'd think he was inspecting a slab of meat at the butcher's downtown instead of a beat up piece of shit desk that's been here since before he was born.

The air of discomfort doesn't leave. He doesn't show it outwardly, tries to hide it behind his mask of pumped up male bravado, but I can still see it. He can't hide it from me.

I have paperwork to fill out and turn in before I can start my beat, but he has nothing. Not even a cup of coffee to take with him on that long night ahead of us. He sits in his chair, hands folded in his lap like a schoolboy. I almost want to give him half my share, let him have his first taste of real cop work, but I have my integrity to uphold. Taking pity on rookies who will soon know how it's done and how to do it isn't going to get me anywhere. Because while he's out earning the acceptance of his vets and the praise of his Captain, I'll still be getting catcalls and summons to the big man's office by my first name. It's not worth it. He'll survive.

It's as if he knows he doesn't belong, that he's going to have to work hard to make himself fit along with the rest of the grain. I wouldn't lie to him if he asked – it's not just hard work. It's a struggle. The veterans underestimate those below them, especially female cops and rookies. Rookies are inexperienced, green around the edges and wet behind the ears (a reasonable explanation for why so many get booted, it's hard to absorb much of anything with water sloshing around in your head). I can't say if female cops have it worse or not. There's not enough of us around to establish any sort of standard. From personal experience, I'd say we have our work cut out for us. We're not taken seriously. Until further notice, we're just asses in a uniform. We're the butt of jokes and bear the brunt of insult. But it's not so bad – when the work finally pays off, we can't say we didn't do it for nothing.

"It's going to be a long night," I tell him, my pen still scratching away. "You don't drink coffee?"

"Didn't need to, where I came from."

"Well, around here it's daily bread," I say. "Better than falling asleep on the clock while you're getting used to the new hours."

He's quiet for a long moment. I can feel him watching me as I write. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," I answer curtly, biting back my more acerbic reply. _None of your damn business, rook._

"You don't look any older than twenty five."

"Probably."

"Don't like talking about yourself?"

"Not on the job."

"Look," he starts, and there's a timbre to his voice that I haven't heard in the few minutes I've know him. Deeper, darker, as if it's hiding something more violent underneath. "I know you think I'm going to treat you like your old partner, like the other guys around here. You're wrong."

"I think you mistake my indifference for dislike. We're on the same team, rookie." I cross one last 't' and shuffle the papers together. I look up at him, my new partner. The same strain of calm nonchalance I kept especially for my old partner settles back in the pit of my gut, right where it always was before. "Just because I won't blow smoke up your ass doesn't mean I hate you."

He seems unmoved by my openness. "I don't want praise if I haven't earned it."

I manage a tight-lipped smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Good. I think we'll get along just fine then."

.

.

.

By eight o' clock, I'm backing the old patrol car out of the lot. Officer Blake is very quiet in the seat next to me. At least his hands aren't folded neatly in his lap anymore. Instead, he has his fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam coffee cup, though it's gone untouched since he picked it up on our way out the door. No cream, no sugar. I can usually tell something about a guy by the way he takes his coffee. My old partner, Hernandez, liked a few drops of tequila in his, but only when he thought I wasn't looking. It must have tasted better that way.

Blake either liked it black enough to make your hair stand on end or he just hadn't the time to embellish it. Most men I knew who liked their coffee black were no nonsense. Their girls, work, and lifestyles were a mirror image of themselves. Severe. Brooding. Particular. One I knew had a touch of darkness to him that would make the average passerby on the street take a second look, make sure it wasn't some devil grinning back at them. He also would've put a chaser of cocaine in his coffee if policy wasn't so set against it.

That didn't seem like Blake, though. He's probably just as much a goody two shoes as I am. The sort of guy that knows every rule has its purpose or else it wouldn't have been implemented in the first place. The law is sacred. Fair, just, and faithful to those who serve it well.

I look down at my own coffee. Blacker than pitch.

"So, what's our neighborhood?"

"Dealer hot spot. I keep the kids from buying and chase the hustlers out as best I can."

"No arrests?"

"A few. It's been Vice's jurisdiction ever since they based a sting operation in my part of town. They're looking for the queen bee so I stay out of it."

"What're we doing there then?"

"Mostly keeping up appearances. As long as I'm there making small arrests, taking reports, and keeping watch, they're not wondering about what's going on in their own ranks."

I pull up next to the curb, a sleepy convenience store to our right and an abandoned building across the street. Blake sets his untouched coffee in the cup holder and takes a look around. Not a soul in sight, just the shop keep standing behind his register looking worse for wear and waiting for the night rush to start. I'm not all that surprised. I'll see a few stragglers coming home from work here and there, but the neighborhood doesn't wake up until after ten, when the clubs nearby start throbbing with heavy, gut-rattling music. I switch on the scanner and then the radio, turning it to the local sports station.

He catches my eye, confused. "What are you doing?"

"I've gotta ask your permission to check the game?" I scoff, turning it up louder.

"I don't really care, just as long as we can hear the scanner," he replies, then seems to change his mind. "What's the score?"

"Second inning, so far two zip in our favor."

"Gotham Knights?

"Is there anyone else?"

He smiles. "I was always more into the Griffins myself."

I didn't want to tell him my story. Why it mattered which game I listened to, why black and gold, why baseball at all. Those colors, this team – it was just that to him. A _team_. He could probably care less if it were a Knights game or a Griffins game blaring over the silence of the cab, as long as it wasn't quiet and awkward between us (like most first nights on the job always are). But to me, it's the only aspect of my life that holds any sentimental value. It's all I have room for in the cramped corners of my capacity for idealism and nostalgia. I remember the days, when I didn't have to listen to the roar of the crowd and the feel the thrill of a homerun over a radio, but was there – _really there. _I could smell everything, taste everything, and the colors were so vivid that every time I close my eyes I paint my dreams with them. A certain cologne would crawl up into my nose, nuzzle warm and close in my head, and I still have that memory too. It's a vague one, uncertain and baseless, but I keep as dear to me as the others all the same.

"Griffins suck this year." I remark, completely deadpan.

"Their year's coming, I can feel it."

He says it like a true man of faith.

I wonder, idly, how he can still hold on to hope in a world like this.

I don't want to know where he came from. Who he is, why he's here – none of it. If it were up to me, I'd do this job by myself. I'd enjoy my Friday night games and my black coffee and my beat on my own and answer to no one but my own rose-tinted view of justice. That's just not how it is. In a perfect world, maybe, but we share this earth with devils who breed chaos and call themselves men with cause. Corrupt politicians. Crooked cops. Deadbeats like the Joker with nothing better to do than tear cities to the ground and dance on the ashes. The truth is I'm tired. I want peace. I want to go to sleep without a gun tucked under my pillow, worrying about whether or not I'll have to use it. I came here to do my part, try to save what little of the world I can from the madmen that try to steal it for themselves. But sooner or later, when I'm older, I want to leave Gotham. I want to leave and never look back.

It isn't that I hate John Blake. Just that he's another nuisance I'll have to get used to. Like being called Nina by my superiors, like I'm some kind of doughnut grabbing, coffee fetching secretary. Or being catcalled and mocked as I lead a handcuffed scumbag toward the back of the station to be booked. The hardest part will be watching Blake get promoted. I'll still be sitting there at my desk with a new rookie to take care of and nurture like some mother hen, still beating while he's out solving cases and catching real criminals (not just the sleazy hustlers that try to pick up on thirteen year old girls). I'll learn not to resent him before long. It takes time to put together a good, convincing mask.

"Those one of your guys?"

I realize I've been staring out the window, at the abandoned building across the street. A rumbling cheer from the crowd blasts out of the speakers. I wonder how long he's let me sit there, brooding in my own jealousy.

"Which one?"

A group of guys has begun to gather outside the convenience store. Mostly young, mid twenties, with their caps turned backwards and their jeans sagging past their knees. There's a couple of middle aged burn outs in the mix. They're the ones that try too hard, keeping their cheeks clean shaven and the holes in the knees of their pants. One of them stands out from the rest, his pacing more jittery and distracted than the others around him.

I nod to the one walking in circles. "Yeah, that's him."

"What's he done?"

"Meth dealer. Doesn't care who he's selling to either…"

Blake's expression changes, furrowing his brow so deep that the shadows make his eyes look black. "Why don't we arrest him _now_?"

I take a sip of my coffee. "Can't."

"Why _not?" _He sounds frustrated. It's a natural state of being for those particularly idealistic rookies, when they see something evil being done right in front of them and can't do a thing about it. It's something he's just going to have to get used to - the sooner, the better.

"He's one of the big fish Vice is after," I snap back. "If I fuck up their sting, then he could get away for sure."

"I thought being a police officer meant going after the bad guys."

"Wrong," I reply. "That's Batman's job. We just follow orders."

"Then what the hell do you get paid to do?"

"Sit around, drink coffee, and listen to the rookies complain."

"This is bullshit," Blake snarls darkly.

"Get used to it."

I turn down the game as something especially juicy comes up on the scanner. _Got a 10-70, possibly drunk, downtown – _

"You want action, Blake? Here's your chance."

I start the car and pull away from the curb. The meth dealer quiets his pacing for a moment, looks up, and watches us as we disappear into late traffic.

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(So, I do hope this is a good start. Enjoy and let me know how I'm doing from time to time! And thank you so much to those who reviewed, favorited and alerted this story.)_  
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disclaimer - i don't own john blake. only my character.


	3. Nocturne

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Chapter Two:

_Nocturne_

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_. . ._

It seems beat work isn't agreeing with Blake. By the second week, he's looking more faded and rumpled than his uniform. I can't blame him too much, though I'd like to try. After my first few days on the job, I'd looked a lot worse than he does now – dark bags forming under his eyes, lines curving around the perfectly pale little mouth. Even his hair has suffered the change in his hours, no longer tame and slicked back like he'd had it the first time I saw him in the Captain's office. He must sacrifice time in front of the mirror for what little extra sleep he can get.

Whenever he looks particularly worn out, I hand him a cup of coffee and tell him to buck up. After all, no one told him it'd be easy. And if they did, they were lying through their teeth. Sure, beating isn't as strenuous and time-consuming as Vice or Homicide, but even those guys did their share of hard work when they were on patrol duty. They had to bite and scratch and kick for everything they got. Sleep was often sacrificed for duty. That's just how it works around here.

The first shift of the night finds us parking across the street from the abandoned warehouse again. There's no game on tonight, so I prepare for a long night of patrol on foot. Keys in my breast pocket, radio clipped to my shoulder, I glance at both ends of the street to make sure no cars are coming. Blake is very quiet next to me, indicating he's either half-asleep again or very confused.

"What are you doing?"

"Working," I reply. Obviously the latter is the case, since he sounds more alert. "Care to join me?"

He follows suit, gathering everything he needs for the night. Radio, night-stick, flashlight, cap. He even makes sure to take his coffee with him, just in case a spell of sudden fatigue comes over him again. "On foot?"

"That's usually how it works." I slam the door behind me and give our perimeter a quick glance over. No one on the streets, not even the after work stragglers I'm used to seeing. The shop keeper of the convenience store looks just as exhausted as ever, leaning over his register with a far off look in his eyes that I can spot from here. I can tell he's dreaming of escaping this place. What it would be like to be out, to be free. No more jokers or scarecrows or mobsters with god-complexes, who think the world belongs to them and everyone else is just paying rent. I don't even know the guy's name. He's always just the shop keep on the corner who never seems to get any business, outside of my occasional stop-in before my shift starts.

I turn back to my partner, finding that he's just finished positioning his radio. "Try to keep up, Blake, you can't play the rookie card forever."

There's a dark, foreboding sort of look on his face. His hands fall back to his sides, one of them gravitating toward the night-stick like he's guarding it from me. "Don't patronize me. I'm sure it took you a while to get through the learning curve."

"All in the past. I'm a vet now…and vets don't take any shit, not even from baby-faced beat cops like you," I inform him, joining him on the curb. "Just how it works."

"You sure like pulling the 'just how it works' card a lot."

I heave out an impatient sigh, my chest expanding with the rush of cold night air. "I guess I was wrong about you."

He cocks his head slightly, causing a subtle shift in his demeanor. It's so unassuming and natural to his usual disposition that I almost miss it. "Why do you say that?"

"No reason," I reply. "It's just you talk an awful lot for someone who doesn't know anything."

The change goes out of his face as quickly as it had come. His mouth flattens again, returning to the hard, uncompromising line that seems second-nature to him. "Where do we go first?"

"Well, this street looks clear." I give it another quick sweep, making sure no one showed up while I wasn't looking. "Might as well start hanging around the clubs."

I gesture to the holster dangling off his hip. "Keep the safety on, but keep it close."

He nods and begins to follow me as I move down the street. The night is dark, clouds forming in the east and hiding the moon behind them. We seem to be going in the thick of the gloom.

I straighten my shoulders and walk a little faster. I'm not afraid.

.

.

.

The entire apartment is filled with the smell of garlic when I hear a knock at the door. Everything goes quiet as I look up from my book. For a second, I think I've imagined the sound, shaking my head as I close the crime novel in lap and toss it to the coffee table.

Then, it comes again.

This time I know I heard it. Slowly, I set down my mug and grope blindly for the holster I'd left on the table in front of me. When I walked in a few hours before, I'd left my gun and keys together at the edge of the surface nearest to the door. It's always been that way. As I get up from the couch, careful not to make one sound, the knock comes one more time. I grab my holster and take the gun from it, flicking the safety off. I'm not expecting anyone – no pizza delivery boys or staggering drunkards who know my name. Everyone in this complex stays away from each other, and I make it a point to distance myself from the other tenants as if they carried plague. There's no one else in the world who gives enough of a damn to be seeking me out without some purpose behind it, dark or otherwise. Who the hell is standing outside my apartment this late at night?

I bite my lip, cross the length of the floor on the tips of my toes, and duck underneath the keyhole. It's quiet out there. Maybe they've gone – or maybe they haven't.

A voice filters inside. "C'mon, Nina, it's just me."

Recognition clicks into place. _John Blake? _I peer through the keyhole – sure enough, there he is, his appearance as disheveled and brooding as ever.

I practically rip the door off its hinges as I open it. He's standing in front of me, shoulders slumped forward from a long night on the beat. "What the _hell _is wrong with you?"

He glowers at me in return, though the expression is short-lived as I yank his whole body inside. "I came to check on you. There's a - "

I cut him off. "How do you even know where I live?! We're not on good terms. We're not buddies. I only give my address, Blake, _to people I consider friends."_

He doesn't even look surprised. I should feel slighted by the fact that he's adapted so quickly to the changeable moods of what Hernandez called 'bitch swings', traits of mine that my former partner never quite got accustomed to. And I'd liked it that way. It kept the greasy old codger from prying into my life, focusing his attention instead on the fact that I _am_ a surly bitch and someone not to be trifled with. It's a mold I've shaped for myself. Not the world around me, not circumstances or hard childhoods. The work of my own hands made me who I am_._

Blake, still as dispassionate as he was when he walked in, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, leather-bound address book. He leafs through it for a moment, going back and forth between pages, and then snaps it closed. He holds it up for me to see.

I grab it from him as quickly as I can. "Hey!"

The care with which he handled the old thing is not present in the way I rifle through it, hunting methodically through the neatly printed records as search for my name. I find it, at last, in the back of the book, on one of two last remaining pages that he hasn't bothered to alphabetize. Mine is at the top of the very last sheet – _Nina Chase. _I rip it out and shred it, throwing the remnants on the floor. I might as well have kicked a lost, starving animal in front of him by the way he's looking at me.

"What'd you do that for?!"

"You have _no_ right. Man, you've gotta _ask _about these things first, not just lift my address from the data base like some kind of creep. For God's _sake_."

Now the surprise begins to flood his sharp features. It bleaches his face and turns him white as marble stone. For a long time, he just stares at me, watches me nervously as if I were some ticking time bomb. "You're crazy, you know that? You are _out _of your mind, _completely_ insane. What did you think I was going to do? Climb in your window late at night and watch you sleep?" He's shouting now, his voice loud enough to rattle walls. "You're not that special, Nina!"

"Don't call me that."

That shuts him up. "Call you what?"

"Don't call me Nina. You don't haven't earned the privilege to call me by my first name."

"Oh, I get it." His voice is flat, no emotion in its low, cruel timber whatsoever. I've never seen him like this. I thought my anger was a force to be reckoned with, but _look at him. _I watch him for a long time, my heart aching with fear. His nostrils flare. His cheeks were pale and cold when he walked in, but they burn now like fire. But it's his eyes. They're black. Pure, flat darkness with no light in them whatsoever. But there's a spark in them. I feel like if I got too close to him, if I brushed my hand against his arm, I'd catch fire too. "No, I do. I get it."

"Get what?"

He props his arms up on his hips, pacing in place. "It's okay for everyone else in the department to treat you like some cheap whore, but if your own partner wants to talk to you, he's gotta take a number and get in the back of the line. Is that how it works?"

I don't say anything.

"I'm the first to admit that I'm no saint. I get angry, I get tired. I don't want praise if I haven't earned it – I told you that the first time we met. But I get _nothing_ but shit from you. After a month, you'd think we'd at least be on friendly terms. Not you. No, you hate my guts."

He's still yelling, walking around in circles like some madman on the brink of breaking. I figure it'll be good for him to let off steam. The anger's just stemming from the frustration. It builds up after a while – the stress, the constant exhaustion, everything. Letting him vent is the best thing for him. So I stand there. I don't say a word and I wait. But then he stops dead still. He looks me straight in the eye.

"Do you hate me? Do you?"

I cross my arms over my chest.

His temper seems to cool some. "Tell me," he demands. "Go on, I can take it."

I throw the ledger back at him, click the safety back into place and return it to its spot next to my keys. My heart is still racing. I've never liked uncertainty, not knowing exactly what's going on. Charging blindly into anything, even something so simple as opening a door, has never been a strong suit for me. I like to know what I'm getting into. Blake just scared the living hell out of me and he doesn't even seem to understand why. It's late, this is not the best neighborhood in Gotham, and he expects me to invite him in with coffee on the table and fucking cookies in the oven. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to steady myself, the anger still churning hot and thick in the pit of my stomach.

"I guess since you're already here, you might as well go ahead and tell me _why_ in God's name you're skulking around my apartment at twelve in the morning."

Something flickers across his face. It almost looks like hurt out of the corner of my eye, but when I meet him full on, the stone-cold mask has returned. Even the anger has appeared to recede.

He swallows and looks away. "I was walking home. Saw some strange guys filing out of the alleyway near your complex. I thought you might want to know."

My throat tightens. "_What?"_

I round the back of the couch and make for the row of windows that line the south-eastern wall of my apartment. Drawing back the patched-up curtains, they're the first thing I notice as I look outside. A group of them – at least four – all standing in a circle chattering away like they're off to Sunday brunch. They seem fairly normal, besides the way they're dressed. "Strange, I wonder who they are…"

"You mean they don't live around here?"

I shake my head, still watching them closely. "Never seen them in my life."

"Should we call it in or what?"

I scowl at him over my shoulder. "_Down_ boy," I scold. "You can't just go around arresting everyone you see walking around the street at night. Some people have late shifts, you know. You've gotta have probable cause first."

"Fine," he replies curtly. "What do we do then?"

"Just…stay here," I say. "As much as I don't like the idea of you being here so late, I like the idea of you getting jumped even less."

"Well, gee, thanks for the concern." He deadpans.

"Shut up and sit down."

I hear his footsteps drawing closer behind me, muffled against the carpet. He appears in my peripheral vision, choosing a seat nearest to the window, and sits down quietly. For a long time, we don't say anything. Not even about what had just happened between us, especially its wide open ending. I never gave him an answer. He must feel slighted.

Finally, he speaks. "I wonder what they're doing."

I roll my eyes. "Even for a cop, you're nosy."

"It's kind of weird to have a group of guys standing on a street corner in the middle of the night, don't you think?"

"Not any weirder than a beat cop taking a stroll at twelve in the morning."

If looks could kill…

"God, would you relax? They're probably just a group of friends that work together. You gotta learn to turn it off when you're not on the job or you'll go nuts."

"You mean like you?" He sneers. "You suspect everyone."

There's a lot of weight in that remark. I choose to ignore it and switch gears. "Yeah, and look where that's gotten me. Bringing my gun with me every time I answer the door."

He smiles a little, though it's rueful at best. "I didn't take you for a gun enthusiast."

My insides start to twist. I keep my eyes glued on the scene below us. "Yeah, you know what, I know this is a cozy moment and all but don't, okay?"

"Don't what?"

"Just don't."

"You don't like people." It's not a question; he's pointing it out, bringing it up right here, out in the open for us both to see.

"Wow, you just figured that out?" I snort.

He ducks my jab and I must say – it's a graceful recovery. "Why, though? What happened to you to make you so guarded?"

My voice is hard as a slab of concrete. "None of your damn business."

The conversation ends. This is why Hernandez and I never talked much. He sipped his coffee, complete with tequila chaser, and I listened to my game. He never pried, he never questioned. It was an understanding that we took up as soon as we became partners. I liked my privacy. He liked not having to keep tabs on my emotions like he had to with his wife, who expected him to remember birthdays and anniversaries and family reunions during a sixty hour work week. Except for the occasional slip up, sitting with me in our patrol car had been a break from the emotional turmoil of home life.

Blake decides not to push it any further. I can almost hear the white flag rising up over us.

"Kinda heavy for a midnight snack, don't you think?"

I look over in his direction, narrowing my eyes at him. "_Huh?"_

He points to the kitchen.

Realization dawns on me and I can suddenly smell something burning. "_Shit!"_

I dash into the kitchen, turning off the heat on the stove and wave my hand over the scalded oil. It bubbles up, catching the hairs on my arm, and I curse under my breath as I try desperately to save it. That's what I get for answering the door so late at night. I get distracted from what I'm doing. _Damn it._

I hear him come up behind me.

"Why are you cooking so late?"

"Because I was _working _earlier."

"Don't you sleep?"

I pause, looking up from the pan and at the clock. "I make it now and freeze it for later, when I'm tired after work and don't feel like cooking."

"What is it?"

"Marinara sauce."

There's a note of softness in his voice. "But you're Mexican...shouldn't you be rolling out homemade tortillas or something?"

I shake my head and smile a little, dicing into a chunk of garlic that I just might be able to salvage. "Racist, but okay," I reply. "No, but I make a mean marinara. My mom's recipe - "

It takes me a second, but I realize where I'm going with this and back off. He's very quiet, standing next to me, breathing over my shoulder. He's a little too close. I can smell his cologne wafting over the pungent scent of garlic like a gust of fresh air.

"The guys still there?"

He goes back to the window and glances down at the street. "Yeah."

I throw in the bowl of meat that's been waiting, patiently, nearby. "Well, might as well get comfortable. You'll be here for a while."

"I _am_ comfortable," he replies.

I gesture pointedly to the small living room. "My furniture doesn't bite, Blake."

He considers this for a moment and then gets up and moves to an arm chair, sitting down carefully as if it will bite him. Satisfied with his choice, he settles in and picks up a newspaper I'd left open on the table, where I'd been reading the sports section earlier. It's quiet for a long time as I continue cooking, mixing in tomatoes and oregano and, finally, a dash of sage.

I hear him groan behind me. "Damnit, the Griffins lost again?"

A smirk curls around the corners of my mouth. "Told you they sucked."

"The Knights didn't do so well either," he retorts scathingly.

"At least they had a few homeruns. How many did the Griffins get again?"

He's quick to reply. "Their time is coming."

The atmosphere in the room takes on an air of contentment. It's almost unnerving how domestic it is – Blake on the couch, his hands folded across his lap as he thumbs through the Sunday paper. And here I am, standing in the kitchen in front of a hot stove, cooking. The snotty brat in me almost wants to put two and two together and imagine myself leaning over a pregnant belly, no shoes, my stomach bulging under a pink apron embellished with little white and red hearts. The picture causes me to swallow down a laugh. It's so opposite of who I am, what I stand for, that the whole thing seems ridiculous to think about.

When I've finished the sauce, I bag it up and stick in the back of the freezer. It's so quiet in the living room that I forgot Blake was even here. Running the used pan under a stream of cold water, I find him slumped over in the arm chair. The newspaper has fallen to his feet, covering his shoes, and his mouth hangs slightly open.

I cross my arms sullenly as I take in the sight of a man sleeping in my living room. "Damn it," I seethe, and throw the last dirty dish in the sink, making as much noise as I can so he'll wake up and leave.

He doesn't budge. It's no use – he's out like an old light bulb.

Resigned to the situation, I stomp through the common areas (making sure to be loud) and stop in front of the linen cabinet. I take out a blanket, threadbare from long years of use, and unfold it, returning to Blake's chair. His limps are spread out everywhere. I nearly trip over one, cursing and looking down to find a very long, spidery leg poking out from beneath the newspaper.

I'm still muttering to myself as I hurl the blanket over him. It barely covers all of him, but I'm not in the mood to try again. For a second, I pause and look him over. His face is peaceful for once. No lines, the hardness smoothed out until his skin gleams like freshly spun glass again.

I yawn and move toward the kitchen again, turning off all the lights as I go. At the window, I stop and peek through the curtain. The men are still there.

I've never seen them before. They're strangers in this neighborhood.

And it makes me nervous.

* * *

(Wow_. _Well, that was an emotional experience. Sorry it took so long to update! And thank you so _so _much to _Saint-Brooke-Lynn _for the tip! I decided to focus more on the non-cop aspect of the story until I can gather enough research. :) Enjoy!)

* * *

disclaimer - i don't own john blake. only my character.


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